Mending something broken
by MelMey
Summary: Mending something broken is not easy. An angry friend who has to learn he was wrong, a good brother who wants to protect the only person he truly cares for, a broken man who tries to mend a memory, and two skulls who always need to see each other. (A post season 3 story)
1. Chapter 1 - Retrieving

_**So this is my entry to Mid0nz's fabulous "Mr. Blue Skull Fan Creations Contest". I always thought that I wanted to write a little background story that explains how Sherlock got the skull and Mid0nz's competition inspired me to this little piece that links the two skulls and uses them to tell a little story set post season three. Don't want to give away spoilers here. I hope you like it.**_

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Chapter 1 - Retrieving

Mycroft stepped out of his black car and walked past the police tape towards 221b Baker Street. He stopped to look at the house which in the light of dawn didn't look to bad. He was surprised that the walls were still intact. Soot covered some patches of the walls beneath one of the windows of Sherlock's flat. All windows were broken and now covered with plastics, but otherwise the house seemed to be fine. Mycroft stopped in front of the entrance door that looked untouched. The knocker was set straight and so he reached out to set it a bit lopsided just like his brother liked it. He smiled.

"Sir?" Anthea asked by his side pulling him out of his thoughts.

"I will go in alone. Wait here." Mycroft said without looking at his assistant. He opened the door and carefully stepped into the hallway. The air was still filled with the smell of chemicals and burnt furniture. It felt a bit damp as the residues of the extinguishing water were still lingering in the air, but fortunately the fires caused by the explosion were rather small and had been put out fast. He carefully walked up the stairs. The steps were still intact. Mycroft had ordered his people to make sure the building was safe to enter in order to rescue whatever had survived the blast of the explosion. But before they would gather Sherlock's belongings Mycroft wanted to take a look, no, he wanted to get the important things himself, things that may help his brother to realize that he would be able to move on.

When he stepped into the former living room he was shocked. He had seen pictures before, but standing here had a totally different effect. The bomb had been in the kitchen beneath the kitchen table when it went off, but by the look of everything it could have been in the living room as well. Suddenly Mycroft was acutely aware of how lucky Sherlock had been to survive. He had stood just a step away from the doorframe just like Mycroft did now and therefore was reached only by parts of the explosion. For whatever reason he must have hesitated to walk further into the flat and that had saved his life. A few seconds later and he might have been in the living room or even in the kitchen. The explosion was meant to kill him. It was still bad enough and Mycroft could easily spot the blood stains on the floor and the walls, testimony to the multiple injuries his brother had sustained. While each single cut and laceration was not so bad, the sheer number of them was horrific. That and the punctured lung due to some broken ribs had led to a life-threatening blood loss and added to the injuries he had sustained before. Damn Moriarty. I should have killed him the first time I got hold of him, Mycroft thought as pictures of his brother in the ICU crossed his mind. The memory of his brother's body covered in bandages, unconscious and on ventilation in a hospital bed made him shudder. He had spent way too much time sitting beside his brother in hospitals over the last few years.

He shook his head as if to get rid of those memories. Carefully Mycroft took one more step into the room and looked around. The light of the rising sun flickered through the plastic discs that covered the windows and it highlighted the swirling dust. The floor was covered with debris. Paper and glass shards were everywhere. He was looking for two special things. While his brother had a tendency to collect all kind of strange stuff, Mycroft knew that he didn't really care about most of it. Only two things had a real relevance for him. Mycroft walked to what had once been a window; covered under all the rubble he saw the brown case. It was a stroke of luck that it was closed when the explosion happened. He pulled it out and carefully brushed the broken bits of glass away and opened the case. He sighed with relieve when he saw the violin to be intact. Again memories flooded his brain. Mycroft had given Sherlock this violin before he went to Cambridge. It was an old and quite expensive instrument. He had asked his parents to lend him the money to be able to buy it. And he vividly remembered the bright eyes of his brother, who had already whined that as a ten-year old he shouldn't play a child violin anymore. Sherlock had immediately grabbed the instrument and after the few seconds it took him to tune it he instantly coaxed beautiful sounds out of the old violin. Mycroft closed the case again and put it on the table on top of the chaos of papers and broken glass.

Next he walked up to the mantelpiece, but the skull was not there. He looked around and started to carefully dig around in the rubble below, but the skull was nowhere to be seen. Mycroft dropped to his knees and looked under the leather chair, just to be greeted by a hollow look of the skull. He pulled it out and saw that beside some small cracks it seemed to be okay as well.

"Hi Victor." He said to the skull and smirked. Now he talked to the skull just like his brother used to do it. He had always scolded Sherlock for doing so as he found that it was an unhealthy coping mechanism, especially since Mycroft was one of the few people who knew whose skull it really was. More than once Mycroft had asked Sherlock to bury the skull, but Sherlock had always ignored his brother's pleas. Carefully Mycroft put the skull beside the violin case and turned around. He had nearly forgotten that the skull was always accompanied by another skull. As he looked for the painting that once hung beside the sofa he remembered the strange discussion he had with Sherlock just after he had moved into the Baker Street flat. He had asked why he had not put the picture in the middle of the empty wall and Sherlock had given him a look like he was an idiot before explaining something about the perfect angle and that they always needed to see each other. Back then Mycroft had needed a moment to realize that Sherlock talked about the skulls. And then his brother proceeded and explained that in this angle he easily could see them both when he was sitting on his chair, a triangle that represented certain lengths and angles. Mycroft didn't want to argue and didn't ask any further questions. His brother was different and he had accepted that, at least in this context.

The skull picture was predictably no longer at the wall; it had fallen to the ground. Mycroft gently turned it around to discover that the Perspex front that was painted with the silver part of the skull was broken and that splatters of what was surely Sherlock's blood mottled the cracked surface. Still held by the four bolts the skull had an even eerier look than before, broken and bloodied. Mycroft picked it up and leaned the painting against the door frame and once more turned around.

Mycroft took a deep breath. The rest of Sherlock's belongings would be collected by his staff, cleaned and repaired if possible. This was much easier to cope with than his broken brother, he thought for a moment. He slowly walked to the table and clamped the violin case under his left arm, took the skull in one hand and walked to the door where he picked up the painting with his other hand. He turned around again and took one last look back into the flat before he left the building.


	2. Chapter 2 - Reuniting

Chapter 2 - Reuniting

Sherlock carefully stepped into the room. This had always been his room here in his brother's country house. It was a home, sort of, but he always felt more like a guest here, sometimes like a prisoner, when his brother had forced him to stay here after returning from rehab. The last time he had been here was after his brother had rescued him from Serbia and had forced him to recover a couple of days before getting back to London. Back then Sherlock had been giddy and wanted nothing more than to leave and go back home, back to Baker Street, to his cluttered flat and to John. John. For a few seconds the thought of him made Sherlock freeze. It added to the feeling of numbness that engulfed him since that day in the hospital. Standing here in this room Sherlock realized that there was no place he could go back to. Although the building in Baker Street was still intact and the flat surely could be renovated and redecorated as if nothing had happened and Sherlock was sure Mycroft had already ordered people to do so, he wasn't sure if it could ever be his home again.

He stood at the door unsure what to do. The room was just like he remembered it. In comparison to the rest of the stuffy old mansion it was a rather plain and light room, painted in a soft yellowish white that was emphasized by the sunlight streaming through the three windows. The furniture was a deep contrast to the bright walls as they were all dark brown and about a hundred years old. There were no paintings at the walls, no decorations on the table or the sideboard. It was so different to Baker Street and the way he liked his living places to be, but for the first time Sherlock was grateful for this difference. He let his gaze travel around the room and then he saw them, deposited on the soft light yellow bedspread in a neat row lay his violin case, his skull and the painting. In steps as fast as his still frail and healing body would allow him Sherlock walked up to the bed and dropped to his knees in front of it. With his right hand he reached out and gently brushed over the skull. He saw a fine crack that ran through the frontal bone and another bigger crack in the right zygomatic bone, but otherwise Sherlock couldn't see any serious damage.

"Hi Victor." Sherlock said his voice raspy from disuse. "You survived. Just like me. A bit battered." Sherlock whispered.

He then looked at the painting, discovering the crack in the Perplex part of the painting. He ran his fingers along the crack, like he needed to feel the damage to realize it. Damaged, cracked, just like him, now and back then, he thought.

"None of this would have happened if you haven't left me." Sherlock said with an accusing gaze towards the skull. He watched the skull like he expected an answer that of course he would never get. Sherlock nodded. "But everybody leaves me in the end." He whispered, running his fingers again across the crack in the Perplex glass. Then Sherlock carefully got up and winced as his body reminded him of his many injuries. He took the painting and placed it on the sideboard opposite of the bed. He slowly walked back to the bed, took the skull and placed it on the nightstand. His glance travelled from the skull to the painting and back. He changed the position of the skull a bit before he was satisfied. Then he sat down on the bed and opened the violin case. He gently took the violin. It was undamaged and Sherlock let out a sigh of relieve. He tuned it and got up and started to play. The Philip Glass violin concerto, a tune that reflected his mood, dark and haunting, lost and desperate. Pain ran through his still broken ribs caused by the position that he needed to play the violin, but he just ignored the pain. The music was more important. He needed this now, needed the music to express the feeling he couldn't talk about to anyone.

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 _ **I always think that Sherlock would love the Philip Glass Violin Concerto as it is such a beautiful piece of modern minimal music.**_


	3. Chapter 3 - Discovering

Chapter 3 – Discovering

"How many times do you think Sherlock can survive your rejection?" Mycroft asked staring at John.

"I had just lost my wife and my unborn child because of Moriarty. I was devastated. It was an extreme situation." John started to defend himself.

"Oh yes, an extreme situation, like it always is and then you just lash out without thinking." Mycroft scoffed angrily.

"He had lied to me again. I was angry. I had a right to be angry." John started, but Mycroft interrupted him.

"And that is the problem. You are just angry, always angry. You, it is about you, not about him. Yes, you lost them, but you didn't mourn, you didn't ask the man you call your best friend for help, you just lashed out, blaming him, not giving him a chance to explain, not listening to what he had to say. You think he lied to you. Well here is the news for you: He hasn't. Mary had lied to you, more than once. She and your child are not dead because of Sherlock. Your wife had worked for Moriarty. She had been one of the snipers at the pool. She had contacted you after Sherlock's suicide because that was Moriarty's plan. Yes, she had turned against Moriarty as she fell in love with you, but just like with Magnussen she didn't even think about telling you and Sherlock the truth. She could have helped Sherlock to finally defeat Moriarty, but she decided to deal with the madman alone and she and the baby paid the price for that." Mycroft explained agitated.

John just looked at Mycroft, trying to cope with what he had just heard. The dark setting of Mycroft's office reflected his thoughts. Wrong. He had been wrong. Mary had worked for Moriarty. How could he not see that? How could Sherlock miss that? John's thoughts were interrupted by Mycroft who seemed to sense that question.

"We had just found out on that day. Sherlock wanted to tell you. Don't you think that he already blamed himself for not seeing who Mary really was? No, you just felt the urge to blame Sherlock, without knowing the facts and without giving him a chance to explain. You had to yell at him while he was still in hospital, injured and weak." Mycroft shouted.

John gulped, but the lump in his throat remained. Yes, he had lashed out without another thought. He didn't want to hear any explanations. God, he had called Sherlock a freak, told him that he never wanted to see him again, told him that he really was a sociopath without any feelings.

"You know, John, that is the problem with you. You don't understand him, you see the brilliant mind, you think he can see everything. You had put him up on a pedestal and he had to fall down eventually. You don't see the man, the human being that is not invincible and has feelings that can be hurt. And you don't see how he would do absolutely anything for. He had allowed his reputation to be destroyed, jumped from a building to save your life, went undercover for two years to keep you safe, got captured, got tortured. The first thing he asked when I got him out of the Serbian torture chamber was, if you were okay." Mycroft said, anger lacing his voice.

John looked at him in shock. Torture. Sherlock had been tortured. He couldn't quite comprehend what he had just heard. Shouldn't he have noticed that?

"I barely got him to rest for a couple of days, because he wanted to see you so desperately. And you, you had asked for a miracle at his grave, but when he came back you attacked him, just angry again, lashing out without thinking, asking questions but not waiting for answers. Everything Sherlock got from you for coming back was rejection, physical attacks and a constant guilt-tripping. God, he planned your wedding to somebody else, he was your best man, even thought it was killing him inside. And then he killed a man for you and your lying wife in front of witnesses and he would have gone on a suicide mission as a punishment if it were not for Moriarty's return." Mycroft's voice was bitter.

Suicide mission. John's brain stuttered to a halt. He wanted to say something, ask questions, but his brain just wasn't able to work.

Mycroft continued his rant. "Since you walked into his life, since he had let you close he has done everything for you. And what did he get for it in return? In a moment of need, when he blamed himself for not being able to save your wife and your child, when he had just lost his home, when he had barely survived the explosion, when he was gravely injured and weak, you turned on him and accused him of being responsible for the death of your wife and your unborn child." Mycroft yelled furiously.

"I …" John started to stutter.

"Do you know that he hasn't spoken a single word since that day, not to me, not to the doctors and nurses, not to his friends, who visited him, to nobody. He is a ghost of himself, just existing, not living anymore." Mycroft said angrily.

John didn't know what to say, too many thoughts swirled through his mind. "Where is he?" John finally whispered.

"You want to know where he is? And then what? You will apologize and then everything will be okay again? I know my brother, he will forgive you, no matter how bad you will treat him. He had decided to love you and nothing will change that decision. Yes, he loves you, but he never dared to tell you, too afraid to be rejected."

Love. Sherlock loves me, John thought, unable to comprehend that information.

"But I asked you, John, what will happen after he forgives you? You will go back to live together as flatmates and solve crimes until you find a suitable girl and move in the suburbs again, or until the next criminal will use you against my brother, because everybody knows that you are my brother's biggest pressure point. Everybody saw that he loves you. You are the only one who didn't see it or you just didn't want to see it." Mycroft said, anger still seeping through every word. "No, John, I will not let you anywhere close to him. I will not let you hurt him again. I will not let you break his heart again, because my brother has a heart and one that can so easily be broken. He needs to move on to survive."

"Mycroft." John started.

"No. Leave. Now." Mycroft stated and John realized that this was not the time to ask for anything.


	4. Chapter 4 - Mending

Chapter 4 - Mending

John stood in front of the big mansion, a house that could have inspired a Jane Austen novel. He hesitated to press the bell button. Would Sherlock listen to him? Would he speak? The things Mycroft had told him were still vividly in his mind. A day after their confrontation he had received a small package containing two USB-Sticks. One was the original one that Mary had given him but that he had never read. It was empty. Another lie. He had given it Sherlock but asked him not to look at it, just to keep it safe. The second stick contained real files about Mary and photos, photos that showed her and Moriarty. And as he read through those files and looked at those pictures he realized that Mycroft was right. He felt guilty. He had trusted the wrong person, had blamed the one person who indeed would do everything for him.

It had taken John several days and a number of tries until Mycroft was willing to listen to him and even more days until he was allowed to come here. Enough time to think about his feelings for Sherlock, thoughts he had never allowed himself before. And now he wanted to repair his friendship, wanted to take the step he had not allowed himself to take, finally saying what he felt all along, but he wasn't sure that Sherlock would forgive him, despite everything Mycroft had said. But it was now or never, his chance to find out, if he and Sherlock had a future, so he pressed the bell button. Seconds later the door was opened by an elderly woman.

"Ah, hello, you must be Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes had told me that you would come." She led him into the lofty entrance hall. "The room of the younger Mr. Holmes is upstairs, second room on the right."

John just nodded and slowly walked up the stairs. The room was easy to find, but he hesitated again for a moment until the smell of some certainly unhealthy chemicals made John smile. Some things didn't change, it seemed. He knocked and as he didn't get a reply he carefully opened the door.

"Sherlock? It is me, John." He stepped into the room.

He didn't get an answer, but he could see Sherlock sitting on the floor, legs crossed, highly concentrated. In front of him was the skull picture, partly broken and Sherlock was obviously trying to glue the broken glass front back together and the chemical smell was clearly emitted by the glue. John just stood at the door for a moment waiting for Sherlock to recognize him, but the younger man was just looking at the painting. John watched Sherlock for a while. He was wearing pyjama bottoms, a t-shirt and a dark violet dressing gown, all new. He looked frail and way too thin John assessed after seeing the thin wrists sticking out of the sleeves of the dressing gown. John could also still spot some bandages and plasters that reminded him that his friend's body still hasn't healed all those injuries. Guilt crept into John's thought as he remembered there confrontation in the hospital. He wished he could turn back the time and undo his mistake.

After a while John felt a headache creeping in and he walked to the windows and opened them to let out the glue fumes. Even now Sherlock didn't look up, but still stared at the painting that now looked nearly normal again. John stood by the window unsure how to proceed.

"Sherlock?"

But Sherlock didn't look up. Instead he got up, swaying a bit before he walked to the nightstand. He took the skull, walked back and sat down in front of the painting again, placing the skull beside it.

"What do you think, Victor? Satisfactorily?" Sherlock asked quietly. "It is the best I could manage."

John watched his friend. It was scary and also a bit sad seeing his friend so lost, talking to the skull. He had talked to the skull before, but not like this. John wasn't quite sure what state Sherlock was in anymore. He looked so vulnerable, so hurt and hopeless and John realized that he was to blame for that.

"Sherlock. It is me, John. Can we talk?" John said as he stepped closer and sat down on the floor just opposite of the other man, the painting between them.

Sherlock looked up and all John could see was a deep sadness. "Talk?" Sherlock said. "What is there to talk about?" His voice was flat and a bit raspy and he looked very tired.

"I want to apologize." John hastily replied. "I am sorry, for all the things I've said, for not giving you a chance to explain, for all my wrong assumptions."

Sherlock didn't answer, but just looked back down to the picture. "It was broken, I tried to fix it."

"Yes, I can see that." John said and just as he wanted to apologize again Sherlock started to talk again.

"I've kept it all those years, the painting and the skull, as a reminder, a reminder of the best and the worst times in my life. I always thought that nothing better and nothing worse could ever happen to me." He paused a moment. "But I was wrong."

"Sherlock." John tried to intervene.

"Do you remember when you first came to take a look at the flat and you asked me if that is a real skull." John just nodded and decided to let Sherlock talk as he had no idea where this would lead to. "I told you that he was a friend of mine and he was, my best friend, my only friend, the only person I ever loved, I ever trusted, well at that time. John, this is Victor." Sherlock said and gestured to the skull.

"Victor and I met at school, in the last year. I was at a boarding school and before he came to attend that school life there was hell for me. I had no friends. I was the freak." Sherlock sighed. "I never really understood why he decided to like me, but he did. We became close, very close. We went to Uni together, the first two years." Sherlock explained quietly not looking up.

As the silence stretched on John asked. "What happened?"

Sherlock looked up. "He left me. He walked in one day with the painting in his hand, wrapped up in bubble wrap. He said it was a voucher." Sherlock's gaze went back to stare at the skull painting.

"He always knew. He had told me when we finished school. But he was always so hopeful that it wouldn't return. And I had seen it, of course, the small changes, but I had just ignored them, as if it would not happen if I just stop to acknowledge the facts."

John was confused. "What facts?"

Sherlock gazed wandered to the skull and his fingers travelled over the bones. "The small changes in his speech patterns. The headaches he tried to hide from me."

John slowly realized. "A brain tumor?"

Sherlock just nodded. „All that he left me was his skull and I didn't even have to convert the voucher for it." Sherlock snorted quietly.

John frowned. Did Sherlock really get the skull of his best friend after said friend had died? "Sherlock, is this?"

Sherlock nodded again. "Yes, it is. His parents were not happy, not that he had decided to hand over his dead body for science and even less once they found out that I got the skull afterwards. But he was a grown-up man. He was clever, he made sure that they couldn't act against his will."

John was shocked and didn't know what to say. He had always assumed that there was a story behind the skull, but surely not this kind of story.

"I'd rather he would have not left me at all, but he did. Everybody leaves me eventually." Sherlock said with sadness leaking through his voice.

"Sherlock." John started but he was interrupted again.

"Life was different without him, but I got used to being alone again, alone with just Victor to talk to." He again gestured to the skull. "Alone was good, lonely, but at least it was predictable kind of pain. I numbed it with drugs for a while, but eventually one can get used to being lonely. I had the Work. It was okay. But then you limped into my life. You just immediately tore down every one of my defenses."

"Sherlock, I am sorry." John stated and he desperately wanted to reach out and touch his friend to emphasize his words, but the painting between them was too large.

"It is okay, John." Sherlock looked up. "As I said before I always thought that nothing better and nothing worse could ever happen to me, but I was wrong. You were better, in many ways. You made me feel things again that I thought I would never ever be able to feel. You made my life worth living. And you were worse, in many ways as well." Sherlock smiled a sad and crooked smile.

"I am so sorry." John said again. "I don't know how to fix this."

Sherlock gazed at him and didn't say a word. Then he looked back at the mended painting. "I am not sure either." His fingers travelled over the crack that now was glued together, but still clearly visible. "Some things are hard to mend." Sherlock said.

"I know." John sighed.

"And even if you are able to repair them you can still see the cracks." Sherlock continued and suddenly looked up. "I love you, John." John's heart stuttered as he heard those words. "I think I always had, from the first day on, but I didn't want to. All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage. My brother always preaches that and he is right. Because when I was finally at the point where I was ready to admit it to myself that I love you it was too late. I was on the roof of St. Bart's. It was in many ways like it was with Victor. I only truly realized how much I loved him, when I knew that I would lose him."

"You haven't lost me." John stammered, still unsure of the direction this talk would take.

Sherlock smiled a bit, but it was a heartbreaking smile. "I lost you so many times. I lost you when Moriarty forced me to jump. I lost you when I was forced to keep you in the dark. I lost you when it took me too long to come back. I lost you standing by your side as your best man. I lost you when I killed Magnussen and they decided to send me away. I lost you when Mary and your baby were killed."

"But I am here now." John interrupted him urgently.

"Yes, you are, but." Sherlock started, but John interrupted him.

"No but, I am here and I will stay if you'll have me." John looked at his friend unsure what he could say to make him believe. Sherlock just stared at him.

"Please Sherlock, give me a second chance, a chance to make things right. I don't want to lose you." John said, his voice was shaky and before he could really think about it he added. "I love you, too."

Sherlock's eyes went wide for just a few seconds. "You love me?" He stuttered.

"Yes, I love you, but like you, I didn't want to acknowledge it and when I did it was nearly too late as well, but we are both here and we are both alive and it isn't too late for a second chance, or is it?

Sherlock looked at John for a while but he didn't answer. His gaze finally went down to the skull again.

"What do you think, Victor? A second chance?" Sherlock asked the skull. "We never had one."

John trembled as he waited for an answer, not from the skull of course, but from Sherlock. It took what felt like hours until Sherlock looked up again and gave John a hesitant, but real smile.

"Do you like bees?" Sherlock asked.

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 ** _The End._**

 ** _Hope you liked it. If you see any mistakes, please tell me. English is not my mother tongue._**


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